


Why magic books are never to be trusted, and fairies are never to be summoned

by Brainiac_and_a_half



Series: Witch England and Fairy France shenanigans [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: England blew up his house, Fairy France, LITERALLY, M/M, Magic, Witch England, breaks that limit far too often, france is a fairy, im not joking - Freeform, self imposed limit of three disasters a day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 20:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11699562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brainiac_and_a_half/pseuds/Brainiac_and_a_half
Summary: Local witch arthur kirkland was not having one of his best days. In fact, you could call this day horrible. After a rather explosive disaster, he resorts to summoning some help... some not so helpful help





	Why magic books are never to be trusted, and fairies are never to be summoned

**Author's Note:**

> **This is a oneshot written by Romano.In.Disguise and Germania_In_Disguise based on a little impromptu roleplay we had together. I (GID) personally like this AU and if you want me to write more (oneshots only please I have like, fic commitment issues _((Serious fic commitment issues- RID))- yeah well fruk you too -GID)_ you can comment with a prompt.**

Local witch Arthur Kirkland was not having a good day. He had blown up one of his kitchens again (when your cooking explodes you tend to have more than one) and the fire had gotten into his potion stores. Now half of his potions he used around the house and to help the locals were either smashed or burned. Resigning himself to a day dedicated to restoring his stores to their former glory, Arthur promptly tripped over a book. The resulting fall was an incredible sight, punctuated by many colourful expletives and a few errant spells being flung about in panic, and after the smoke had cleared the rest of the house was covered in a very fine sheen of glitter and a bookshelf that had been previously untouched was now on the floor smoldering. A few well placed spells took care of the glitter due to its inherent summoned state, but fire and physical damage was going to take a much longer time to sort out. Reaching down to pick up the book that had caused the second disaster of the day (Arthur liked to enforce his self imposed limit of three) he paused and studied the cover.

It was a wishing book. Contrary to popular belief, wishing books did not grant wishes. Whoever named the book was an idiot. Wishing books stored spells, and a skilled magic user could transfer pre-made spells into the book there they would be sorted into categories, and whenever the user was low on energy or time they would just extract the spell. The most likely reason for the moniker of “wishing book” was the fact that the easiest way of extracting a spell from a crowded wishing book without having to search through the entire book was to place a hand on the cover and say something akin to “I wish for a spell to _____” Depending on what the caster wished for the book would search its “database” so to say and offer up the best spell it found. Most still preferred to search manually since the book tended to go overboard. Stories of mages wishing for spells to clean and getting a mini flood and druids wanting a campfire and accidentally starting a forest fire were among the over compensations that made wishing books notorious among apprentices. 

Arthur gathered the book and a couple other things into his arms, lugging them outside and dropping them on the grass with a thud. He sat down next to them with a sigh, blowing his choppy blond bangs out of his vibrant green eyes, looking to his still slightly smoldering house. He sat up, placing his chin in his palm and another hand unwittingly on the wishing book. “Bloody hell, I wish I could have some help.” He muttered, unintentionally activating the wishing book. A glow of blue caught Arthur’s eye and he glanced over at the source. The book. Fuck. 

A poof of blue sparkles flew into his face, settling on his thick eyebrows. “Ick. No. Leave!” He spat, shooing the creature that the book had summoned away. “I can't, mon chéri, you summoned moi~” A small faerie that Arthur unfortunately knew far too well smirked, his annoying French accent pleasing to Arthur’s ears, although the Brit would rather eat his own hand than admit so. Francis Bonnefoy was the name of this faerie, and his delicate wings tickled Arthur’s nose as he flew around, scattering rose petals in his wake. 

“Noooo I summoned some HELP.” The Englishman corrected, scowling fiercely and brushing glitter out of his hair and brows. “You are most definitely NOT HELPFUL!” 

“I CAN BE 'ELPFUL LIKE I CAN ASSIST YOU WITH ZOSE 'ORRID SOURCILS!” Francis countered, tossing his head to get his long blond hair out of his gorgeous blue eyes, poking at the Englishman’s eyebrows. 

“BACK OFF. WANKER!” Arthur screeched, smacking the faerie clear out of the air, watching as he tumbled down the small grassy slope before transforming into human size, brushing blades of grass out of his long blonde hair with his fingers. 

“WHAT PART OF I AM 'ERE TO STAY DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?” He yelled in return, climbing up to stand next to Arthur, his wings smacking the Englishman in the face as the Frenchman bent down to dust off his breeches.

“THE PART WHERE YOU NEED TO STAY NEAR ME.” Arthur countered, scowling as Francis facepalmed, the Brit rolling his eyes at the Frenchman's dramatics. “PARCE QUE YOU SUMMONED MOI.” He said loudly, as though the Englishman couldn't hear him. “I CAN’T LEAVE UNTIL I’VE 'ELPED YOU WITH WHATEVER YOU NEEDED 'ELP WITH.” 

“WELL IM UN-SUMMONING YOU SO BUGGER OFF!” Arthur yelled, waving his hands wildly at the summoned faerie, trying to shoo him away. “BEGONE. SHOO. LEAVE.” 

“Non.” The faerie declared as he dodged the flapping hands and skipped after the fuming Englishman. 

“Stop FOLLOWING ME!” Arthur screeched once he caught sight of the Frenchman behind him, face turning red(er) with rage as he stomped off in the direction of his now not so smoldering house. 

“I don’t feel like it.” Francis retorted childishly before sticking out his tongue at the retreating Brit’s back. 

“You little SHITE. I’m not letting you in my house.” Arthur snapped, flipping the Frenchman off over his shoulder. 

“Is zat Anglais for merveilleux?” Francis asked. 

“No.” Arthur responded shortly, “No it isn’t. If I remember correctly from what my brother taught me it's **English** for "merde." He emphasised the name of the language in clear contempt of the other’s use of French. 

“Honhonhon il parle Français!” Francis laughed in delight, clapping his hands and spinning around, fluttering his translucent wings. “C'est genial! Et excuse-toi.” (He speaks French! That’s great! and excuse you) 

“I have no fucking clue what you just said.” Arthur muttered in distaste before stopping to unlock (what remained of) his door. “Where the bloody hell are you going?” he snapped when he noticed Francis trailing after him into the building. “You AREN’T ALLOWED IN THE HOUSE!”

“C'est ma maison maintenant” (It’s my house now) Francis stuck out his tongue, shoving Arthur so that he stumbled back and shutting the remains of the door in the Brit’s face, poking his face out of a charred hole. 

“SPEAK BLOODY FUCKING ENGLISH!” Arthur screamed in irritation, voice cracking with rage in the middle of his sentence.

“NON!” Francis yelled back, taunting the Englishman with a bite of his thumb, blowing him a teasing kiss. 

“OUI!” Arthur screeched in anger, which quickly changed to horror when he noticed his slip of language. “I MEAN YES! DAMMIT! FUCK!”

“HONHONHON!” Francis howled with laughter as he noticed Arthur’s embarrassment, grinning at the shocking shade of red the Brit turned, opening the door and dodging the punch Arthur sent towards his face. 

“Baise toi. Tu es un terreur absolue.” (Fuck you. You are an absolute terror) Arthur sniffed, resigning himself to the language change, as he turned to walk through his house, picking his way over piles of smoking debris and a few toppled bookshelves.

“Je sais, mais je suis magnifique.” (I know, but i’m magnificent) Francis sang, using his wings to fly a bit above the floor, feet dangling over the damage. 

“I fucking hate you.” 

“Je t'aime aussi.” (I love you too)

“Nope. Get out, out of the house. I’m making dinner and you get food only if you leave.” Arthur paused before amending his order, “I mean you don’t get food. I don’t want you around”

“Honhonhon mon chéri, d'accord. Mais, I am a magnifique chef, it would only be fitting if I cooked for a très beaux homme like you.” (very beautiful man) He flirted, placing his chin in his hand as he smiled at Arthur, who scowled. 

“Fuck it i’m going to bed.” Arthur griped as he marched away from the smoldering remains of the kitchen.

“....” Arthur slowly turned from his position at the foot of the stairs with a petulant expression on his face. “This pleases me.”

“Genial!” (great) Francis sang, repairing the kitchen with a wave of his hand and conjuring ingredients, beginning to cook. 

“No talking.” Arthur demanded, poking a finger into Francis’s back right between his wings, jabbing a pressure point.

“D'a-...” Francis cut himself off with a slight yelp, covering it up with a zipping and locking motion over his lips accompanied by a teasing smile as he pretended to throw away the key.

“You keep your beautiful fucking voice to yourself.” The irate Englishman continued while he took a seat at the newly reassembled table. “I-I mean,” he stuttered as he realized what he had said. “I hate you.” Arthur grumbled before resting his chin on the table like a cat.

“Honhonhon~” Francis chuckled as he double checked that he had the proper equipment to make dinner.

“LESS TALKING MORE MAKING ME FOOD!!” Arthur screeched, slamming his hands on the table.

“Merci beaucoup, monsieur ange.” (thank you very much, mister angel) Francis said, glad to have an opportunity to show off his cooking skills. “D'accord, je me tais.” (ok i’ll shut up) He said hastily as Arthur lifted a heavy cast iron pot over his head, shielding his face with his forearms. 

“...Can you make stew?” Arthur asked as he set down the pot, practically collapsing at the table and glaring at Francis from the corner of his eye, as if he was daring him to say no. 

“Bien sûr~” (of course) Francis purred once he was sure that his brains were not in any danger of being bashed out with a pot, summoning ingredients and beginning to cook. 

“I like stew.” Arthur mumbled sleepily as he rested his head down on the table and stared longingly at the big fluffy blanket that was lying on top of the miraculously unharmed couch in the parlor. Francis grinned before simply waving his hand at the blanket to make it fly over and wrap itself snugly around the little witch.

“As you wish~” He sang while he stirred the bubbling- cauldron, really? Was he going for overly stereotypical witch _on purpose?_ \- **pot** to make sure it didn’t boil over and upset the kitten-like man any more.

“I still don’t like YOU though.” The snappy Brit felt the need to clarify, scowling at the faerie’s back. 

“Whatever 'elps you sleep at night.” The Frenchman sighed, accompanied by a roll of his brilliant blue eyes, smiling slightly at Arthur’s denial. Sureeeeee they weren’t friends. Sureeeee Arthur hated him with every fiber of his being. Of course. In fact, the feisty Englishman totally wasn’t asleep on the table behind his sworn enemy, letting out little cute snores as he fidgeted under the blanket that Francis summoned over to him with a flick of his wrist. Enemies. Yeah right. 


End file.
